


Tied

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and a Valentine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied

He stands, posture perfect as always, ramrod straight, shoulders squared. Escorts the ladies in, announces them with a flawless annunciation. Bows respectfully to the men. The ballroom is a whirl of brightly colored gowns, of flowers, of fans flicking open and then closed in that seductive code.

Saint Valentines.

Carson has never been particularly fond of the day; the ball usually gets raucous, a bit drunken, couples whispering and pairing off for so-called "walks" in the moonlit garden. The maids get giggly and flirty; the footmen show off and preen for them like peacocks on display. He and Mrs. Hughes will have a devil of a time getting any work out of them in the morning, for the ones who received Valentines or furtive kisses will be swooning about, the ones who didn't will appear sullen, sleepy-eyed, resentful.

It's a foolish day, anyway. People take leave of their senses in the name of love, when all it really amounts to is infatuation with an idea, the glamour of poems and champagne and too-sweet confections.

He watches the dancers; his head hurts just a bit from the heavy, overpowering fragrance of flowers tied around wrists, pinned at waists, to shoulders. All of the ladies are sporting corsages, posies, hair ornaments crafted from roses and forgot-me-nots and the air is rich with the smell. Suddenly, he is almost sick with it, almost nauseous from the slightly rotting, funereal scent of it all.

There is a fleeting dark shadow across the room that rustles through unnoticed. Almost.

He has seen little of her today, as she has been busy preparing rooms for the guests and keeping her girls on task and he has been preoccupied here, laying tables and checking wine lists and writing menus in his office.

She is a cool swath of black among all of the crimsons and pinks and peaches. Gone almost before she was there. It's how she moves during these gatherings, silently, swiftly, speaking to no one, passing through only when she must, avoiding the crowds and keeping her own company. It's part and parcel of her job as a housekeeper, to operate silently behind the curtain that separates work from pleasure. To leave beauty and perfection in her wake but to take none for herself.

Well. She fails at that part, he thinks. If anything, all of this excess only accentuates how whole and healthy and good she is in her quiet beauty. Her clean, lined faced, her simple dresses, her scrubbed hands. She doesn't need jewels and beads when she has those eyes, that skin.

Carson will take that any day of the week over all of this powder, perfume, silk and chiffon.

He does wish, though, that she had flowers like these ladies. But not flowers. Flowers are cheap today, cheap and trite, and neither of them are cheap or trite people. Neither of them are sentimental. But he wishes all the same that she had just something, some kind of token, some kind of Valentine that let her know that he sees her, appreciates her, admires her loveliness. That lets her know that no matter how quick her steps or quiet her stride, she still shines true among all of this artifice.

And, he has to admit, the corsages aren't merely given as a show of affection. They're a way for a man to put his claim on a lady. A way to make a territorial show to other males with a ribbon around a graceful wrist. It hasn't gone amiss to him that the house is not only full of guests, but full of valets, full of manservants here with their lords.

"Mr. Carson."

He looks to his right and Thomas is standing at attention with that sardonic half-smile, the bored sleepy expression that seemed to be his default reaction to everything. His tie is slightly loose as always, slightly raffish, and Carson twitches a bit. He has lectured the boy time and again about the importance of his dress but somehow he's always just a bit casual, a bit relaxed.

"I'll be leaving to see about the breakfast menus, if that's still the plan?"

He gives a curt nod. The tie is aggravating him, but he has a sudden idea, a foolish one surely, but perhaps —

"Thomas, before you go, give me your tie."

Thomas looks at him, starts to speak, thinks better of it. Shrugs, pulls the end of the bow so it collapses, slides the length of silk from around his neck, drops it in Carson's waiting palm. Takes his leave.

Carson glances around. The party is in full swing, has been for some time. He doesn't count anyone missing so he shouldn't be needed urgently. He looks down at the tie in his hands. Just as he suspected, it will fit him because the idiot boy always wears his too large. He leaves the ballroom without a sound.

She's in her parlor, exactly where he suspected she'd be, hiding away from the noise and merrymaking. When he enters the room, she's leaning on one hand while tiredly writing with the other. No matter how tired she is, he's noticed — yes, he's noticed, he notices everything, despite what she may think — she always finds a smile for him.

"Mr. Carson, shouldn't you be at the ball?"

He doesn't answer, lifts his chin, removes his white tie. Replaces it with the one he confiscated from Thomas, affixes it with an expert hand. Glances in her mirror to make sure it's properly positioned.

"Yes, I'm going back, but first —" He leans over, picks up her arm, notices — yes, he does notice — how his fingers close completely around it and then some, notices how small she feels in his hands.

"Mr. Carson, what — "

He rests her hand against his chest and without a word of explanation, slides the soft narrow material around her wrist, ties it in a pretty bow. Presses his thumb on the center knot, tightens it with firm tugs of the tips. Admires his handiwork for a moment, then replaces her hand on the desk.

He straightens his jacket, leaves. Returns to the ballroom to see out the night. She thinks him ludicrous, he's sure, probably removed it in complete confusion right after he left. Still. It was a job well done, and he is satisfied.

She sleeps that night with her hand next to her face, curled on the pillow, placed carefully where she will see it before anything else when she opens her eyes in the morning. Where she will see his Valentine on her wrist.


End file.
